Old Man Dempsey was half jogging alongside the sheriff, who took enormous steps on his walk through Glory towards the saloon. He held a loaded carbine in the crook of his arm, and a holstered Colt Dragoon at his hip. He chewed tobacco but, other than that, his face remained hard and focused.
“There was three of them,” rattled Dempsey, out of breath, fighting hard to keep up with the sheriff. “They seemed mean.”
“You said that.”
They passed Stockton"s Livery Stable, with Stockton in the doorway, arms folded across his barrel chest. “You want some help there, sheriff?”
“I reckon not,” came the reply, but Dempsey, panting, close to his limit, veered away from the lawman and staggered over to where the big horse-trader stood.
“I think there"s gonna be trouble.”
Stockton frowned, “I can s
